In letter to Mrs. Stillwell, Sept. 16, 1873.
It was very dark in the east corridor of the Armory, and, save for the quiet footfall of the ever-watchful orderly, there was no sound in the silent room where the nation's dead lay wrapped in the great silk flag. In the shadow of the stairway, a group of secret-service men were nervously whispering among themselves, with occasional glances that strove to penetrate the black void that lay beyond the crape-hung doorway.
Their sergeant stood a little apart from the others, an alert figure, with a hand that lingered suggestively about his hip-pocket. For three days he had kept unwearied watch while thousands had paid their last homage to the dead servant of the people, and the strain was telling upon him. The nation had lost a hero, but John MacDonald had lost his idol—and his best friend. Through his mind was sweeping a strong revulsion at conditions which could have fostered so wanton a murder; and a sudden and passionate hatred of the dark race to whose salvation this man had been a martyr threatened almost to unman this stern son of the service. That very day he had sent away with a curse a paralytic old negro who had brought his handful of field-lilies to the bier of the savior of his race. MacDonald had felt no qualm at his action, and when, later, he had found the poor flowers lying withered outside the closed door, he kicked them aside with an oath. In a measure, the stern old Scotchman had not been responsible for his actions at that time, for it was just then that he had heard the dread rumor which was spreading its dark wake through the crapehung corridors. That very night while the whole nation was yet bowed in its sorrow, an attempt was to be made to steal the body of the dead hero. The crime seemed scarcely to be believed, but the men of the secret-service, scattered throughout the dark corridor, were awake and ready.
John MacDonald, striving vainly in his grief-saddened heart to frame a reason for it all, wondered how he had been able to resist the old negro with his tear-wet face and pleading voice. That black creature was a man like himself, and he, also, had loved the great man who was lying so quietly in the folds of his country's flag. "O Lincoln," he spoke, raising a clenched hand toward the black doorway, "they have murdered you, they have taken you from us, but still—" Suddenly his muscles stiffened, and something very akin to a chill crept about the roots of his hair. There had come the quiet but unmistakable sound of a footfall from the room where the dead lay. The Scotchman stood a man of stone, and while his very hair stiffened with horror, a mighty wrath swept over his whole being. They were at it, then, those fiends who dared to desecrate the body of his lord with their filthy touch. With a movement like a cat, MacDonald drew his ready weapon, and, with a call to his startled subordinates, stepped boldly over the threshold.
In a moment, the room was filled with the glare of torches, and the secret-service men, crowding in the doorway, saw the leveled weapon of their chief sink inertly to his side.
On the black catafalque the hero lay, beneath the outstretched wings of the eagle of the republic, and at his feet, sobbing out his grief-stricken heart, knelt an old negro.
—Ida Treat.
The room was not large enough for a schoolroom. The floor, the wall, and the roof were all made of bamboo. In the center of the room was a long, narrow, roughly-made table, at which sat closely twenty or thirty pupils. There were also two or three benches here and there, on which sat new boys and girls. At the end of the long table sat a rather old but fierce-looking man, the schoolmaster. In his left hand he held a book, and in his right, a whip; for at that time the principle governing schools was that knowledge could not be gained without severe bodily punishment.
When I entered the schoolroom, my "cartilla" in hand, this was the first scene that met my eyes. It happened that Titay, a cousin of mine, had been sent to school on that day also; so we had the same lesson. In harsh tones the teacher ordered us to study the vowels of the Spanish alphabet. And with a loud voice we repeated again and again, a, e, i, o, u, until we knew them—at least we thought so—by heart.
At last our turn came; and we were called to go to our teacher. My cousin (a girl) was at his left side, while I was at his right.
"What is this?" the teacher asked my cousin.
"A," she answered, correctly.
However, at his second, third, and fourth questions, she was confused and could not answer. But I really knew "a, e, i, o, u," by heart, for my kind mother had taught them to me; so I proudly corrected every mistake she had made. After every correction, the teacher would say to me, "Tira la oreja" (meaning, "Pull her ears"). And with what boyish pleasure did I pull her ears! She cried and resolved never to go to school again.
When I returned home, I was very boastful, and told everybody in the household of my triumph. Thus I received encouragement in my first school day, and after that I continued to study with interest till I myself received some bodily punishment.
—Máximo M. Kalaw.
One day I came to the schoolhouse tardy. When I entered the door, I saw the pupils standing side by side in a row and facing the teacher. There was one column of numbers on the blackboard, near which the teacher stood with a long wooden pointer in his hand. As soon as I saw the numbers on the board, I knew at once that there would be a contest. So I laid down my books on the floor, took off my hat, and stood next to the last boy.
"Teacher, Leopoldo does not belong here. He is the captain-general. Therefore, he should stand next to Federico," said the last boy as soon as he saw me.
"No," said the teacher, "he came in tardy. Boys, you must learn to come to school on time," he continued.
The teacher then gave us names: he named the first boy general, the second major-general, the third captain-general, and so on. I, being the last boy, was named ranchero, or the cook of the army.
"He who is the general at the end of the contest will be given a cup of guinatan as a prize," said the teacher.
"Now begin, Martin," he continued. Martin began to add the numbers on the board with accuracy, and finished within forty seconds. The major-general did the same, but he finished within forty-five seconds. The captain-general added the numbers within forty-two seconds. So he pulled the ear of the major-general, and they exchanged places. Before, my turn came, there had been many changes already, a soldier had beaten a colonel, a sergeant had passed a lieutenant.
"All right, Leopoldo," said the teacher.
"One—six—fourteen—twenty-two—thirty—thirty-six—forty-five. Carry four. Eight—ten—fifteen—twenty-one—twenty-nine—thirty-five—forty!" I said without stopping to take a breath.
"Forty seconds!" announced the teacher.
The teacher wanted to try me again, but the boys said they should like to hear the general first.
"All right. Go on, Martin," said the teacher.
This time Martin failed. He finished within thirty-seven seconds, but he made a mistake. The boys shouted.
Fortunately, the time was up. So I was pronounced the victor. The teacher bought a cup of guinatan, the sweet fruit mixture that Filipino children so much love, and gave it to me. I was very proud then. When I reached home, I told my mother all that had happened. She was very happy.
—Leopoldo Faustino.
In the sense in which a proverb is a condensed parable, an anecdote is a condensed character-sketch or biography. Like many of our other terms the word "anecdote" itself reveals to an extent its present meaning. It is derived from the Greek and signifies "something not published." This is the sense in which Cicero uses it when he speaks of a book of anecdotes on which he was engaged, but which he talks of confiding to a single friend only, as if it were not intended ever to be published. In literature the word has been used to denote either secret histories or portions of ancient writers which have remained long in manuscript and are edited for the first time. The anecdotes of Procopius, which were published in London in 1674 under the title "The Secret History of the Court of Justinian," are evidence of the first significance; and Dr. Johnson's reference to the English-French fashion of using the word for a "biographical minute passage of private life" establishes the second meaning.
In our day, collections of anecdotes—criticisms and observations, smart sayings and ludicrous tales, delivered by eminent men in conversation and recorded by their friends or discovered among their papers after their death, and put together with historical incidents concerning them—are published under the term ana.
The ancients were in the habit of indulging in this species of literature. From earliest periods Oriental nations have preserved the intimate talk of their wise men. From them the Greeks and Romans took up the practice. Plato and Xenophon recorded the colloquially expressed ideas of their master Socrates. It appears that Julius Cæsar compiled a book of apophthegms in which he related the bon mots of Cicero; and a freedman of that orator, taken with his master's liveliness and wit, composed three books of a work entitled "De Jocis Ciceronis."
But the term ana seems to have been applied to such collections only so far back as the fifteenth century. The information and anecdotes picked up by Poggio and his friend Barthelemi Montepolitiano during a literary trip in Germany "are to be called," says another friend in a letter, "Poggiana and Montepolitiana." Perhaps the most typical, and surely a very famous and interesting, production of this species of narrative in English is the "Walpoliana," a transcript of the literary conversation of Horace Walpole, Earl of Oxford. Selden's "Table Talk" was considered by Dr. Johnson good ana, better than the French. But incomparably superior to all, a collection the most remarkable in the English language-and indeed, in any language (as a writer in the "Britannica" asserts)—is James Boswell's "Life of Samuel Johnson." Though not conforming to the type of collection either in name or in form of presentation, this, according to Carlyle, "the greatest production of the eighteenth century," depends for its value mainly upon its ana. "Its interest," the same writer goes on to say, "arises, not from the details it furnishes of the events of Dr Johnson's career, still less from any attempt at a discriminating estimate of his work and character, but the graphic representation it gives of his habitual manner of life and speech. The animate greatness of Johnson appears, more than in all his writings, in his portrait delineated with the exactness of sharply-defined photograph, as he appeared, to the eyes of his admiring biographer, in his daily deshabille."
That is the secret of anecdote—it must get at the real man in however small a part.
While a book of ana is a collection of short, pointed, true colloquial relations of more or less detached interesting particulars concerning a person of consequence, a single anecdote is one of those interesting particulars entirely detached, short, pointed, true, and colloquial. A book of anecdotes is a group of stories, miscellaneous so far as subject matter is concerned. Spence's "Anecdotes" is a very famous eighteenth century literary set; and Percy's is an early nineteenth, with the stories selected—as the preface ostensibly gives notice—for their moral effect, and arranged according to the virtue illustrated or the subject treated—humanity, generosity, kindness; science, art, and so on.
As we have seen, to be most interesting an anecdote must be singularly expressive of the peculiarities of the person represented; or if the event recorded is not in the form of a character episode, but rather in the form of an unusual happening, it must be consonant with the accepted popular notion of the man's personality. To write an original anecdote you will need to pick out of your past experience or the experience of some one of your acquaintances a story of a more or less important personage in your neighborhood, a happening that has never hitherto been written down. If the person concerned is not very well known or if the trait of character revealed would not be immediately recognized by his friends, you might prefix a slight statement that will help point your narrative. Remember, however, that an anecdote must be very brief; also that it must have a single and complete climax; and that you must under no circumstance be induced to add another word after the climax is reached.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge was so bad a horseman that when he mounted he generally attracted unfavorable notice. On a certain occasion he was riding along a turnpike road in the country of Durham, when he was met by a wag, who, mistaking his man, thought the rider a good subject for sport. "I say, young man," cried the rustic, "did you see a tailor on the road?" "Yes, I did; and he told me that if I went a little farther, I should meet a goose."
When Boswell was first introduced to Dr. Johnson, he apologized to him for being a Scotchman. "I find," said he, "that I am come to London at a bad time when great popular prejudice has gone forth against us North Britons; but when I am talking to you, I am talking to a large and liberal mind, and you know that I cannot help coming from Scotland." "Sir, replied the doctor, archly, "no more can the rest of your countrymen."
A Scottish clergyman, being one day engaged in visiting some member of his flock, came to the door of a house where his gentle tapping could not be heard for the noise of contention inside. After waiting a little, he opened the door and walked in, saying with an authoritative voice, "I should like to know who is the head of this house?"
"Weel, sir," said the husband and father, "if ye sit doon a wee, we'll may be able to tell ye, for we're just trying to settle that point."
When Lord Chesterfield was one day at Newcastle House, the Duke happened to be particularly busy, so the Earl was requested to sit down in an anteroom. "Garnet upon Job," a book dedicated to the Duke, happened to lie in the window; and his Grace, upon entering found the Earl so busily engaged in reading, that he asked how he liked the commentary. "In any other place," replied Chesterfield, "I should not think much of it; but there is such great propriety in putting a volume upon patience in the room where every visitor has to wait for your Grace, that here it must be considered as one of the best books in the world."
Dr. Channing had a brother, a physician, and at one time they both lived in Boston. One day, a countryman in search of a divine, knocked at the doctor's door, when the following dialogue ensued:
"Does Mr. Channing live here?"
"Yes, sir."
"Can I see him?"
"I am he."
"Who—you?"
"Yes, sir."
"You must have altered considerably since I heard you preach!"
"Oh, I see your mistake now. It's my brother who preaches. I practice."
When Dr. Johnson had completed his dictionary, which had quite exhausted the patience of Mr. Andrew Millar, his bookseller, the latter acknowledged the receipt of the last sheet, in the following note:
"Andrew Millar sends his compliments to Mr. Samuel Johnson with the money for the last sheet of the copy of the dictionary, and thanks God he has done with him."
To this rude note the doctor returned the following smart answer:
"Samuel Johnson returns his compliments to Mr. Andrew Millar, and is very glad to find (as he does by his note), that Andrew Millar has the grace to thank God for anything."
—Percy's "Anecdotes."
Rudyard Kipling's keen and sympathetic understanding of all the diversified and picturesque varieties of human nature found in British India, is too well recognized as part of his power to need assertion; but a little anecdote which his mother remembers of his boyhood is not without a pretty allegorical significance. It was at Nasik, on the Dekhan plain, not far from Bombay, when the little fellow, trudging over the ploughed field, with his hand in that of the native husbandman, called back to her in the Hindustani, which was as familiar to him as English, "Good-by, this is my brother!"
—Professor Norton, in a biographical sketch.
Pope tells the following story about the great portrait painter:
"As I was sitting by Sir Godfrey Kneller one day, whilst he was drawing a picture, he stopped and said: 'I can't do so well as I should do, unless you flatter me a little; pray flatter me, Mr. Pope! you know I love to be flattered.' I was at once willing to try how far his vanity would carry him, and, after considering a picture, which he had just finished, for a good while very attentively, I said to him in French (for he had been talking for some time before in that language): "On lit dans les Écritures Saintes, que le bon Dieu faisoit l'homme aprés son image: mais, je crois, que s'il voudroit faire un autre a présent, qu'il le feroit apres l'image que voilá.' Sir Godfrey turned round and said very gravely, 'Vous avez raison, Mons Pope; par Dieu, je le crois aussi.'"
—Pope.
Here is another: Mr. Pope was with Sir Godfrey Kneller one day, when his nephew, a Guinea trader, came in. "Nephew," said Sir Godfrey, "you have the honor of seeing the two greatest men in the world." "I don't know how great you may be," said the Guinea man, "but I don't like your looks; I have often bought a man much better than both of you together, all muscles and bones, for ten guineas."
—Dr. Warburton.
Once there lived in the town of Balanga an old Capitan Municipal who was nicknamed carabao; for he was a very big man and also a very great eater.
One day as a land parade was going on in honor of Dr. Rizal, three well-known jokers of the town were following the procession, when they suddenly came to a small pond in the street. And one of them said, "What a nice time our public carabao had taking his mid-day bath in here." "Oh! yes, he must have had a very good time indeed," replied the two. But unexpectedly the Capitan was at their back, hearing all they said about him.
Therefore as soon as the procession was over, they were arrested in the Municipal building. And on the next day they were tried and sentenced by the Capitan to fill in all the ponds of the streets around the town, and also to drain them properly.
—José Feliciano.
In the Ateneo de Manila all the pupils are forbidden to speak any language except Spanish.
One day the pupils of the college went out to the yard to play baseball. It happened that one of the boys who was watching the game was hurt at the kneejoint, and fell down on the ground. The boy cried so loud that the rector at once went hurriedly to see what was happening in the yard. He saw the boy sitting on the ground with one of his legs bent. He approached him, and said, "What has happened to you, my boy?" And the boy feeling yet the pain that the ball had caused him, answered, "Father, while I was watching my companions who were playing baseball my—, my—," "What?" said the rector, impatiently. "Father, my—, my—," answered the boy, showing his kneejoint as he was pronouncing the word "my." "Do you mean your leg?" said the rector. "No, father I mean my—," replied the boy. "But your what" cried the rector, "say what you mean to say." The boy, who was trying hard to find the word in Spanish for kneejoint, answered at last, "my vino-vinohan, father, was hurt." The rector, though very angry at the boy's dullness, laughed heartily at his dictionary-making powers.
Note—The word in Tagalog for knee-joint is "alak-alakan," which is similar to the Tagalog word "alak," meaning wine in English and vino in Spanish. The boy, not knowing the proper word in Spanish for knee-joint, derived the word "vino-vinohan" from the Spanish word vino, which means alak (wine) in Tagalog.
It was a bright day when a crowd of people stood before a platform decorated with palm leaves and roofed with a banner of stars and stripes. The eyes of the spectators, who were all eager to hear the speech of the well-known eloquent orator and skillful politician, Mr. William H. Taft, were fixed on the personages on the platform.
At last, after an ovation by the multitude, Mr. Taft rose up and addressed the audience thus: "Señoras y caballos."[8]
—Amando Clemente.
Eye-witness account is to true story what realism is to fiction. Exactness is the aim of the narrator. He endeavors to tell precisely what he saw and heard. A great deal of our newspaper "copy" is supposed to be of this type, and likewise much court testimony. The attorneys try to separate distinctly fact from fancy. What a man really must have seen and what he thought he saw are often very different. It appears at first that an unembellished account would be the easiest thing in the world to give, but it takes only a little observation to convince one that few persons can tell what they see or hear; few indeed know what they see or hear. With the bare actuality, they are constantly confounding what they thought or inferred. As a rule, only the man educated to the work can report truthfully.
A unique and curious ancient document of this type is found in a little book that was published by the Spanish Academy of History in 1783, called "El Passo Honroso" or the Passage of Honor. It is a formal eyewitness account prepared on the spot by Delena, one of the authorized scribes of John II, and gives minutely the events of a passage of arms held against all comers in 1434 at the bridge of Orbigo, near the city of Leon, during thirty days, at a moment when the road was thronged with knights going over for a solemn festival to the neighboring shrine of Santiago.[9] Suero de Quiñones, the challenger, was a true gentleman of chivalry, it seems, and had been wearing in sentimental bondage to a noble lady a chain of iron around his neck one day in each week. From his bondage he could be freed only by bringing to her as ransom a minimum number of real spears broken by him and his friends in fair fight. So they stood—ten of them—for thirty days challenging all comers. Delena records sixty-eight opponents; six hundred and twenty-seven encounters; sixty-six broken lances; one dead knight; and many wounded, among whom were Quiñones himself and eight of his fellow-champions. Along with the general narrative is a full account of the religious and chivalric ceremonies as they were actually indulged in from day to day. Such a minute and elaborate and fully authenticated eye-witness record of not fictitious but real "knightly guists and fierce encounters" is manifestly invaluable to a student of chivalry.
It is interesting to think of this dapper young scribe sitting on the side-lines watching the combatants and taking down his notes as the telling rushes were made by either party; and then sending his copy hot from the pen to his royal reader. I suppose we might well call Señor Delena the historical prototype of our modern athletics reporter.
Many of our best literary men have had longer or shorter apprenticeships at getting "copy." Dickens served for a number of years. Facts for a reporter do not come at call; he can not turn them on, so to speak, nor is he permitted to make them up. He must find them. Consequently to be successful he needs to have an ear for news, and an eye for the graphic, a simple but full vocabulary, and a pen made supple by much practice. He must seem to be at home in any department of human action. All his words must carry with them a large tone of veracity. He can hardly afford to make slips even on his minor details, since his brother reporters visit the same scene at the same time.
Literary eye-witness account, however, need not be devoid of all expression of personal feeling. It is only necessary that the writer make clear to his reader which are thoughts and feelings and which are facts. Indeed, the best effect of such a narration will often come from the contrast. The artist lets us into his own state of mind, describes perhaps more or less minutely the stage-setting of his little occurrence—especially if any part is necessary to complete understanding later—portrays in general the types of people who were or might have been concerned, and then drops from his pen one by one the facts cold, clear-cut, unembellished, orderly in sequence, with their participants graphically and cleanly outlined, and thus gains his effect. He is as precise as a lawyer, but he has been also as crafty, in the good sense of the word. He has prepared us to appreciate his facts. If he interprets to us afterwards, he does so in a reflective and an apparently hesitating way that seems to leave us in full possession of our own opinions, which will prove to be in reality only corroborative of his.
It will be good practice for you to attempt to give an eye-witness account of some occurrence. If two or three of your friends were present at the same happening, you may enjoy comparing reports. There will probably be more than one incident to relate; if there is, you must be careful to have sequence and coherence in all that you say. You should anticipate and answer any questions one would naturally ask of an oral reporter. Stop when you have finished. Doubtless you have noticed the unpleasant habit many narrators have of starting over again and repeating all or part of the tale. The temptation does not so readily come to a writer, of course, as to a speaker—unless the writer is paid by the word.
Your readers will not resent interpretation even if it be philosophical, if it be not mixed with the narration and be only honest and of the pragmatic school—interrogative and not dogmatic. Indeed, mankind likes philosophy when it seems to come as an inevitable though tentative summing-up of our almost bewilderingly multiple phenomena.
Cherbourg, October 8.—On board the Royal Mail Steam Packet liner Asturias, which arrived from Lisbon this morning, were a number of passengers who witnessed the fighting in the Portuguese capital on Wednesday, among them M. Octave Castaigne, a lawyer, of Tournai, who was among the passengers by the Asturias who ventured to land at Lisbon on Wednesday.
"On Tuesday evening," said M. Castaigne, "we were informed by a wireless message that the revolution had broken out in Portugal. From far out at sea was heard the thunder of the cannon and as we entered the Tagus the crackle of rifle fire. On our arrival before Lisbon we noticed that the cruisers Sao Rafael and Adamastor, which were flying the Republican flag, were still firing on the town.
"About ten o'clock the fusillade ceased and a party of five passengers, including two Americans and myself, went ashore. The lower part of the town had the appearance of a city of the dead. The houses were shut and marks of rifle-shots and shells were to be seen everywhere. The centre of the city, on the contrary, was alive with people. The crowd was vociferously acclaiming the Republican flag, which was flying, not only from the public buildings, but from nearly every house. It struck me very clearly that anyone who had had the courage to shout "Long live the King!" would have been shot dead on the spot. The crowd was largely composed of soldiers and sailors under arms, and patrols were also moving about in automobiles to any part of the town that appeared to be greatly menaced by the Royalist troops.
"We reached the City Hall, which was surrounded by a huge crowd, just at the moment when the Republic was being proclaimed. The Republican leaders from the balcony of the building were haranguing the people, whose enthusiasm was indescribable. From time to time the cheers of the crowd were broken by rifle volleys and the reports of cannon.
"When the official ceremony was ended, we succeeded in entering the City Hall. The new Ministers were receiving visitors and were conversing with anyone who presented himself. One of the passengers by the Asturias approached President Braga, and in a short speech congratulated him on the proclamation of the Republic. Dr. Braga replied that he was happy to receive our visit, and added that the Portuguese Republic was definitely established.
"After leaving the City Hall, we proceeded to the most dangerous part of the city, that is to say, the Avenida do Liberdade and the Dom Pedro square. The houses showed signs off cannon shots and the roofs of the majority of them had collapsed. The Avenida do Liberdade was still occupied by the opposing forces. The Republican troops occupied one end of the street, while the Royalists were in possession of the other extremity, being separated by a distance of about five hundred yards. The battle was still in progress. I admit that I was somewhat afraid, and as the shots whistled by I hid myself behind the shelter of a house.
"At the risk of being killed any minute our party succeeded in reaching the Avenida restaurant. That part of the restaurant facing the Avenida do Liberdade was in ruins, and the walls were full of bullet holes. (M. Castaigne has saved some of the bullets as souvenirs.) The Recio railway station had been destroyed by artillery fire and the railway lines had been torn up. The Necessidades Palace shows traces of numerous shells, but it is stated that the interior of the royal residence has suffered even more, shells having simply rained on the roof.
"The Red Cross Society showed admirable devotion during the fighting. I saw its members go into the thick of the fight to pick up the wounded, who on Wednesday were estimated to number over a thousand. The number of killed is considerable, but at the time it was impossible to obtain correct figures."
London, October 9.—The Royal Mail Steam Packet Company's steamer Asturias, which left Lisbon on Thursday, arrived at Southampton yesterday morning, having among her passengers several Englishmen and South Americans who witnessed many of the episodes of the revolution. Among these was General Garcia, who has had experience enough of revolution in South America.
The general told an "Evening News" correspondent that he and six others went into Lisbon on Wednesday. "We found the streets littered with wounded," he said. "A body of troops was being moved from one side of the city to the other, and in the districts through which they passed people were flying panic-stricken, but otherwise everybody was orderly and the city was quiet.
"The Republican flags were on the buildings and all trace of resistance was over. Soldiers were going into shops and houses pulling down pictures of the king, tearing them up and trampling them underfoot. As we passed along, a picture of the King came flying out of a doorway and dropped at our feet. My secretary picked it up. He was immediately surrounded by soldiers, who ordered him to destroy it at once.
"I went to the municipal buildings and there saw members of the provisional government, who allowed me to cable to my own government in Cuba. I should say the estimate of fifty killed and three hundred wounded is not high enough, but the list is remarkably small, all considered. I have seen many revolutions, but none so beautifully carried out as this."
Paris, October 9.—"The abounding joying joy of the people—tempered by admirable self-control—and repeated evidences of careful organization—these were the things which impressed me most."
In these words Mr. Charles H. Sherrill, American Minister to Argentina, told a Herald correspondent at the Hotel Majestic last night, of a visit he paid to Lisbon on Wednesday, a few hours after the overthrow of the Portuguese monarchy. With Mrs. Sherrill and their young son he was a passenger on the Asturia, which touched at Lisbon.
"The shooting began about two o'clock on Tuesday morning," he continued. "It was at six o'clock on Wednesday morning that we came into the harbor. The bombardment of the palace had ceased, but with our glasses we could see the dents which the shells had made in the walls.
"I disembarked at about one o'clock in the afternoon and went to the American Legation to see if it had suffered damage. I found the streets swarming with inhabitants, who were singing and shouting in their joy. Save for this celebration there were few evidences of the conflict in the lower part of the town.
"But it was different in the Avenida, the broad thoroughfare leading to the elevation back of the city. The insurgents had permitted the Royalists to form in Rocio square, in the down town district. The insurgents then took their position on the hills above, holding the Royalists in a trap, hedged in on the other side by the attacking ships in the bay.
"From the elevation at the upper end of the field, guns had been aimed down the Avenida. The avenue had been stripped of trees, windows had been shattered and the fronts of buildings which projected farther than others had been partly demolished. The American Legation escaped even the slightest damage.
"Occasionally I encountered a wall which bore striking evidence of the battle. Blood was matted upon it and blood had coagulated in the gutters, indicating only too plainly that several lives had been lost there. Whole groups in the sidewalk had been mowed down by shell from the field-guns.
"Nearly every man I saw and many boys carried guns. They were not rifles of the 'homespun' variety—these arms—but Mausers and equally effective weapons. These were evidences of preparation. Fully a thousand people were waving flags—the red and green flag of the new Republic—a further proof that the revolution had not come just when it did by accident.
"For the new Portuguese flag is a rather complicated affair. Across a blue circle in the centre is a curved line in white bearing the inscription, 'Patria e Liberdade.' Half the space of the background is red—revolution—and green, symbolizing hope.
"I followed a crowd and a band into the City Hall. There in a large room I saw the President and his cabinet in session, probably drawing up one of the new government's addresses to the people. It was plain to me that these were not men who had been 'pitchforked' into office over night. Their appearance was that of sober, responsible officials. I was simply a curiosity-seeker, of course, and kept my identity concealed.
"As I walked along I heard two shots fired in a side street. A moment later a cart drove by in which lay two bodies. A crowd formed at the scene of the shooting, but there was no suspicion of a riot. Among the thousands of people I saw that day there was not a single person who appeared to be under the influence of liquor. There seemed to be no looting; no outrages were committed. It was a most impressive object-lesson of the self-control which a Latin people is able to maintain when it is imbued with a serious purpose.
"Country folk were pouring into town by the thousands, and these reflected the joy and satisfaction felt by the residents of the city. They afforded a rebuke to the suspicion that the revolutionary feeling was confined to Lisbon itself. The spirit of the people was best expressed by two words, composing a headline which stretched across the front page of an afternoon newspaper. Translated, it read simply: 'At Last!'
"And it was apparent also that the revolution was accomplished with as little bloodshed as possible. The insurgents were merciful—if that term is permissible in this connection. Shells fired from the ships in the bay were directed in such a way that they should explode over the town, carrying the desired warning, but causing the minimum amount of damage.
"I was told that the dead and wounded numbered three thousand. I am certain this was a great exaggeration. My estimate is about 600 or 700, basing these figures on information obtained at the headquarters of the Red Cross Society.
"Most of the residents of Lisbon give the greatest share of credit for the result to the seamen. A hero was made of every sailor who appeared in the streets. The crowds cheered him heartily, but the army officers aroused much less enthusiasm.
"Save for these evidences of jubilation Lisbon was quiet and orderly—think of it, only a few hours after such an uprising as this! The bodies of the dead had been removed, the wounded were being nursed and business was proceeding almost normally. In front of every bank was a guard of sailors to protect the financial interests of the people. It seems strange that I, who have lived in South America two years, was forced to come to Europe in order to see a revolution."
On the night of February 4, 1910, the eve of the carnival, I went to take a walk in the Luneta. Already from the distance I could see the hippodrome in the carnival grounds well illuminated. "What is going on in there?" I asked myself, and not being able to explain the matter, and urged by my curiosity to know everything, I walked in that direction.
Many people, foreigners as well as natives, were crowding up and down the sidewalk near the fence enclosing the carnival grounds. There were also constabulary guards at almost every thirty spaces to prevent the people from peeping through the fence. But in spite of the presence of these guards some people, nevertheless, seized the opportunity that offered now and then while the guard was not looking, and peeped through the fence.
I then saw that I was not the only one who was anxious to know what was going on in the hippodrome, and, what is more, my anxiety grew stronger. Then a moment came when I lost a little self-control, and I, too, shared some of those opportunities that offered. But suddenly there came the guard who warned us to stop the business. At that very moment, an American came along and he, too, could not help wanting to see what was going on inside. But the guard went to him at once and said: "No se permite eso, si tu quieres ver lo que hay adentro, puede Vd. pasar por la puerta central." "Vd. sabi muy bein que eso no verdad, sabi," replied the American angrily. Then the guard told him that he had received orders to see that people did not peep through the fence. "To h—— with your orders!" said the American. "Well, este habla el commanding officer," replied the guard. "Oh, nom porta!" At this moment an American policeman came along and asked the American what was the matter. "This fellow wants to prevent me from peeping through this fence when I am on neutral ground," "Well, that is just what I am going to do," replied the policeman, and he again explained him the order. "I don't care for that order!" "Well, if you don't shut up, I shall take you to the police station!" "You may!" Then the policeman told him to walk on; for he did not know what he was talking about. "All right," said the gentleman, and he walked away; but he came back and asked the policeman what his number was. "It makes no difference what my number is," said the officer of the law. "Well, I want to know it." "My number is——, and my name is——; and what's your name?" "My name is——, and I am the secretary in the public——"(!). "All right," said the policeman, and both men took opposite directions.
Two bystanders who witnessed this incident began to argue as to what would have happened had the American gentleman been a Filipino. One of them said that if the man were a Filipino and had argued with the officer of the law in that way, he would have received a good knock on his head. The other said that he was satisfied with the way the American policeman behaved himself.
I then returned and walked toward the central gate of the carnival grounds, and there, to my surprise, I saw the very same American gentleman come and walk straight inside without saying a word to the guard. Then a Filipino came along and asked the guard to be allowed to go in, but, unfortunately, according to the guard, only the stockholders were allowed to enter.
Was the American gentleman a stockholder? He alone knows.
—Adolfo Scheerer.
Tales of actual adventure differ from the other true narratives in the fact of the necessary presence of an exciting occurrence. Danger at hand and overcome is the keynote of the action. The happening may be slight or tremendous, or serious or humorous; but in every case it acquires a certain amount of dignity from the possible disaster.
The narration is usually in the first person, though not necessarily. In the "Library of Universal Adventure," compiled by William Dean Howells and Thomas Sergeant Perry eighteen years ago, the larger number of the stories are autobiographic in form. This book is a quaint comment on Howells's non-sensationalistic attitude of today. Though purporting to be true, these stories are almost lurid in their romanticism. They present man in the familiar struggle with untimely death, led thither by various motives and accidents. We see Pliny the Elder with insatiable curiosity sailing calmly toward the destructive volcano; we see the lonely scientist Audubon on his Western trip in early America weighing his chance of life against his watch, that is coveted by a murderous hag and her two drunken sons; we see the runaway slave Frederick Douglass, attempting to slip along the very precarious underground railroad to safety; of course, there is mutiny at sea, and shipwreck on unknown shores. Indeed, here we find all the despised paraphernalia of blood-curdling romance, true, with Mr. Howells's name signed on the package.[10]
Obviously such stories are written to climaxes, though any manifest straining for emphasis in a true narrative is resented by the reader. All the skill you have got from your former attempts to write realistically ought to help you here. You should put in enough minutiæ to convince, but omit enough to be interesting. The general effect of your style should be that of directness and swiftness. Whatever power of psychological analysis you have, should come to your aid, but it should appear only in keen and brief flashes as you hurry along with the events. Descriptive touches of objective nature may be used for emphasis in harmony or contrast, especially at the end or the beginning of the adventure, though these are a somewhat trite device. Whatever else you do, try to write simply and naturally. Do not exaggerate. You will be judged chiefly on your tone of veracity.
There is a large and interesting field here for the amateur writer. This type of story allies itself with the probable adventure, and in fact is generally lost therein. The successful authors of boys' books for the most part make use of the coalescence. Boys at a certain age are extremely exacting, and when their entertainers have to relate their stories orally as well as pen them, they are often as solicitous to find authority for their fictions as were Macpherson and Chatterton.